MOSCOW, August 22, 2006 - “The jewel in the crown of Croatian tourism,” is how the Lonely Planet guidebook describes Dubrovnik. I’d go further than that. I’d say it ranks with Venice – with whom it used to compete as a maritime power -- as one of the most remarkable and beautiful cities in the world.
Map showing Croatia with its "crown jewel" Dubrovnik and adjoining Montenegro. Also known as the Dalmatian Coast, it lies on the eastern shore of the Adriatic, across from the Italian boot. There's still a strong Italian influence here.
The sun shines 250 days a year here and it only rains 15 days in the summer time, the guide books tell us. With a mean annual temperature of 17 degrees C, about 60 degrees F, it’s a climatic paradise.
But I think there’s something else -- less tangible and less definable -- that pulls people to Dubrovnik.
I remember listening to National Public Radio back in 1991-92 as I commuted twice daily to my classroom at the Seattle Court Reporting Academy and hearing that the walled city of Dubrovnik had been shelled and partially destroyed by Slobodan Milosovic’s rabid violence.
I was saddened, because I had heard ten years before about the incredible charm of this completely walled and beautifully preserved medieval city from Pat O’Meara, then Acting Director of the Office of Saline Water (OSW) in the Interior Department. At the time, I was publishing and editing a Wash., D.C., publication in the field of water desalination, and Pat would periodically take me to lunch and regale me with jokes, stories, tequila, and OSW propaganda.
He had gone to Dubrovnik for a conference and had been swept away by its unique geography, history, beauty, and charm. I had sworn to someday go there.
And here it was: destroyed by senseless bombing!
So when my friend Marco, the M-Pact singing group founder from LA, suggested that we – he; his boyfriend Ken, an Olympic figure-skating coach; and Scott F., former house-mate, singer, voice teacher, and director of the gay and lesbian choir in a major U.S. city -- get together in Dubrovnik, I was both delighted and a bit amazed.
The last I heard, Dubrovnik had been destroyed!
My 23-year-old Tivat host, Adrian, is a handsome, sweet, thoughtful, and kind -- but not gay -- university student who helps his Mom, Tonka (see adjacent photo) manage their summer B&B business. We have promised to stay in touch.
I couldn’t get a straight flight from Moscow to Dubrovnik, if you remember (Chapt. 210, 211). The only one I was able to get went to Tivat in Montenegro (where the hell is that, you may rightfully ask (see attached map for an idea), and managed through the Internet to find a bed there with the help of Adrian Nikolic and his mom, Tonka. From there I would figure out how to make the three hour trip to Dubrovnik.
I left Moscow on Saturday, two days after the London bomb scare (was this contrived by the B [Bush/Blair] twins to ratchet up the fear a few more notches? Both are, after all, under heavy domestic fire, and the Republicans are faced with the possibility of being buried in the November Congressional election, evidenced by unknown anti-war candidate Ned Lamont’s victory over veteran Iraq War drum beater Senator Joe Lieberman in the Connecticut Democratic primary last week.
Adrian's mother Tonka on her balcony on the "Tiviat Riviera" in Montenegro. The bay is an arm of the Adriatic Sea.
Time for a new injection of national adrenaline!
And not only does fear sell newsletters, as my old Wash., D.C. publisher friend [Energy and Environment Daily] and colleague Llewellen King used to say, but it also wins elections – “don’t change horses in the middle of the stream.”
Anyway, it brought worse disarray than usual to the always screwed up Russian airport system. As a consequence, my KrasAir [(Red Air) -- I could have sworn it said KrashAir the first time I read it] flight didn’t leave Domodedovo Airport until 1:15 p.m., the time it was scheduled to be landing in Tivat.
My first glimpse of Tivat coming over the mountains on a perfect summer day.
When I finally arrived at the Tivat Airport three hours late, I gave a cabbie Adrian’s address and phone number, and 15 Euros later was shaking his hand at the Nikolic home nestled on the shore of an arm of the Adriatic Sea.
I had tried with mixed results to shoot a picture of the bay and the city from the airplane window (see photo) as we hopped over the last mountain and made our approach over the water to the Tivat Airport. Though it was 27 degrees C (upper 80s F), the seabreeze kept me and the house cool and refreshed. The view from their balcony was picturesque and serene.
Coming in lowover the bay just before putting down at the Tivat airplort, which is surprisingly busy with air traffic -- most of it from Russia because Montenegro is relatively inexpensive and doesn't require visas.
Although 23-year-old Adrian (“Adriano” in his native Serbian), whom I had already managed to work into a full-blown (so to speak) fantasy, was wearing nothing but shorts, he was a bit too well fed. He also tripped neither my gay-dar nor my peter meter. But he was very personable, thoughtful, kind, and friendly, and I liked him a lot. He also spoke surprisingly good English. Tonka’s sister Marija, Adrian’s aunt, who has lived in LA for over 20 years, was also there visiting and understandably spoke English fluently.
Tivat, though one of the nicest vacation resort towns of Montenegro, is not nearly so popular and well known as Dubrovnik – and doesn’t deserve to be – it is nonetheless beautiful, semi-tropical, tourist-friendly -- and much cheaper.
I paid only 20 Euro a night for a my room (although I had promised Adrian 40 if he would put me up, he refused to take more than 20), which was actually an apartment. Our apartment in Dubrovnik would cost 190 a night shared by the four of us – almost 50 Euro per person a night. Small, kitchenless hotel rooms in Dubrovnik were $ 200 a night and up.
As for food, I had two exquisite meals in Tivat restaurants for 10 Euro each. My first lunch in Dubrovnik – only so-so -- set me back about $ 30.
So though not as spectacular or as sought after, the “Tivat Riviera” of Montenegro (“Black Mountain,” as you might have guessed) is a lovely place to vacation and -- for the average Russian tourist -- much more affordable, which explains why it’s a popular destination for Muscovites. Airline reservations have to be made well ahead of time.
Sitting in the midst of a huddle of Montenegrins, I knew only that Montenegro and Croatia had once been a part of Yugoslavia, and that Montenegro had declared its independence just months before, but little more. Question time:
These long, low buildings, the “lazzaretti” -- named after the Biblical Lazarus whom Jesus, according to legend, restored to life after he died of leprosy -- were built across the marina and outside the walls of the city at the end of the 16th century. They were used to quarantine incoming visitors and goods. You could enter the city after 40 days only if you were still alive.
“Do you remember Tito?” I asked Marija.
“Oh, yes,” she replied. “I loved Tito. He held the country together. We had a good economy, and everybody lived well. When he died in 1980, I was afraid it would fall apart.”
I asked her about the war, but before she could reply, Tonka interrupted. “You talk too much,” she admonished. “I don’t want you to talk about the war.” Then turning to me, she said, “all she does is talk, talk, talk.” Though I didn’t understand Serbian, I understood that.
I later asked Adrian when we were alone (alas, not nearly often enough) what he remembered. He didn’t remember Tito, but “Yugoslavia was a strong country; we had the fourth strongest army in Europe. We had a strong economy and were self-sufficient. And now, we are Montenegro. It used to be when you said you were from Yugoslavia, everybody respected you. But whoever heard of Montenegro? There’s not much future here now.”
Adrian is a student in management at the local university and in the meantime is working at a nautical supply store (“we make and sell things like rope”), which is extremely busy in the summer time. He works every day, including Saturday and Sunday.
With his job, Tonka’s pension, and their summer income from renting rooms to tourists, they live well, though they are far from wealthy. Adrian’s deceased father (heart attack, age 52!) built the big, comfortable house virtually by hand. They drive an old Serbian-manufactured Yugo (remember them?) and a small new French Renault.
The bus trip from Tivat to Dubrovnik is scenic and charming and you don't have to pass through airport security, though it did take 15 minutes to go through passport control at the Montenegro/Croatian border.
Because of his long hours and many friends, Adrian spends little time at home, so I didn’t get to see as much of him – anyway you define it – as I’d have liked. Instead, Tonka tried to fix me up with her elderly friend Slavica (pronounced Slavitsa), a kindly, white-haired neighbor lady. As you can imagine, the conversation died quickly.
But even if she’d been a beautiful 18-year-old male dreamboat, it still couldn’t have continued long. Though Serb, Croat, and Russian share the same roots and I recognized many common words, the way they are put together is entirely different, and I could understand no conversations in either Serb or Croat, though I was able to make myself understood in a Dubrovnik grocery store using Russian words for food.
Striking view of Dubrovnik nestled at the foot of Srd (pronounced Serge) Mountain on the highway approach from Tivat. Its protective walls are fully visible.
On Monday morning, Aug. 19, Tonka drove me to the Tivat inter-city bus station – Adrian had already gone to work -- and I began the three-hour trip to Dubrovnik along the picturesque shore line at the foot of a range of solid rock mountains. There were some charming and inviting cities along the way (see photos). I particularly recall Kotor, whose marina was filled with expensive yachts and hills with expensive homes. I’ve heard of Croatian and Montenegro cities where Westerners come to buy retirement homes. I think this is one of them.
One week later, Adrian said, Kotor would host an annual boat fiesta, featuring a huge flotilla of boats “in masks,” as he characterized it, circling the bay for three hours. He subsequently sent me a picture of the event, but details were unidentifiable, and it was not worth showing you.
Many of the 824 houses in Old City, like this one located near the “dead bell,” have been continuously lived in for centuries. The dead bell was so called because the only time it was rung was when somebody kicked off. However, the dead bell is now dead, too.
I caught a postcard view of the old walled city of Dubrovnik as the bus approached from the hillside above (see photo). From the bus station, located near the new marina west of the old city, I took a 10-Euro taxi ride to the Buza Gate and followed the directions hostess Ivana had e-mailed me:
“Follow the street in front of you, the Boskoviceva street. Take 100 steps down and you will get to the Prijeko street (a street full of restaurants – see photo); then turn right and follow the street about 20 meters and you will see the Restaurant “Ragusa 2.” Ivana’s mother Ivanka, who not only owned the house but managed the restaurant, would give directions from there.
Prijeko Street, site of many of the best restaurants, including "Ragusa 2," of which our hostess Ivanka was manager.
Thus was my introduction to the “streets” of Dubrovnik, which were seldom more than 6 feet wide and often consisted of nothing but steps. The town plan, adopted in 1278, had provided for symmetrically aligned “streets” and a building code that prohibited blocking your neighbor’s view or access to the sun. Consequently, the city is uniquely habitable, with balconied and verandaed houses clustered up the entire hill and reached only by the narrow stair-cased “streets.”
Of course, cars are out of the question and strictly forbidden. I did see an ambulance on the polished stones of the main street, or “Stradun,” but if ambulance attendants had had to take me to the hospital from our apartment, for instance, they would have still had to carry me by hand down more than 100 steps from our digs to the waiting meat wagon.
“How do you get supplies?” I asked Ivanka. They’re brought to old town by water, she said, and then transported by hand-pulled carts to the spot on the Stradun nearest the restaurant, then hand-carried up the stairs, or rather “street,” to Prijeko Street. The kitchens of Prijeko St. are often also on a different level from the dining area, and each tray of food has to be brought down several steps to be served to the hungry patron.
Marco and I melt a rum and caramel flavored gelato. Yum yum!
The “national dish” of Dubrovnik, as far as we and most tourists were concerned, was gelato, “ice cream” stolen from the Italian. Stalls were everywhere, and each one seemed tastier than the last. My last and absolute favorite was rum, although the caramels ran a close second. It was about $ 1 a scoop – probably about the same as Baskin Robbins but a lot better.
The occasional whiff of sewage – not as bad as Venice, but still pervasive – was undeniable. I was a little shocked until I discovered that it had every right to occasional redolence. It was installed in 1478 and has been in operation ever since! It was built a few years after the aqueduct, which still brings fresh water from the mountains eight miles away. Dubrovnik was one of the first cities in Europe to boast such a luxury.
“They don’t make ’em like they used to” certainly applies here. The U.S. is now experiencing widespread sewer disintegration and spills. In Hawaii earlier this year, for instance, 50 million gallons of raw sewage spilled from broken sewer pipes onto Hawaii’s beaches, damaging the entire economy, sickening many, and causing one death, according to a report by Thomas Rooney, president and chief executive officer of Insituform Technologies (http://tinyurl.com/zllhm).
The majestic Mincenta Tower, the crown, highest point, and symbol of the Dubrovnik wall, boasts a wall thickness of 16 meters – nearly 50 feet. Our apartment lay just below.
At the same time, cities in North Carolina, Maryland, California, Texas, Louisiana, Washington, Oregon, and elsewhere “are reporting the worst sewer spills ever.”
And the problem will get much worse, says Rooney, for the simple reason that “most sewer pipes were built 60 years ago, and only intended to last 50 years.”
So if you occasionally smell a little sewage in Dubrovnik after 564 years, just be glad you’re not where pipes installed only 60 years ago are now rusting and crumbling away, bequeathing more than just unpleasant smells.
“The stone nest of freedom” is one of the city’s nicknames. Freedom has been the rallying cry of the Dubrovniki for centuries and valued more highly than any commodity. The town withstood a 15-month siege by the Saracens in the 9th century; and carved into one of its major fortifications, Fort Lovrijenac, dating from the 11th century, is the Latin motto: Non bene pro toto libertas venditur auro – “Freedom is more to be valued than all the gold in the world.”
“Orlando’s Column” has served as the symbol of Dubrovnik freedom since 1419. The knight’s 51.2 cm (about 30 in.) forearm, called the “Dubrovnik elbow,” was widely used as a measurement for cloth.
“Orlando’s column,” a medieval knight with drawn sword (see photo), has stood in the town square symbolizing Dubrovnik’s freedom and independence since 1419.
Today every orange-colored bus in the city proclaims “Libertas” in huge black letters. It is on the flag, on coins, and in songs.
But it isn’t just a motto, it’s a national heritage. For centuries they achieved it by tribute to the Sultan of Turkey (tribute is cheaper and more certain than wars, they reasoned) and by defending themselves behind the massive walls and cannons against the Venetians and other jealous competitors.
Their form of government was uniquely designed to prevent the corruption and greed that come with wielding power too long. The president, or “Rector,” ruled for only one month, and during that month was not allowed to leave the palace walls so that he could devote himself solely to the affairs of the Republic during his term of office.
What a great idea! Can you imagine how different contemporary history would have been had Dubya been tossed out of the Oval Office after only one month!
The real power in Dubrovnik lay in the senate of 45 of the city’s wisest aristocrats, who passed the laws and guided the city’s development.
Our apartment, marked by the purple bougainvillea, was just under the Mincenta tower (see adjacent photo), highest point of the wall, but to get there we had to climb 100 stairs down, then 100 stairs back up. Poor 13th century city planning, but great exercise. The extent of the war damage is suggested by the number of re-tiled roofs.
At one time Dubrovnik was one of the three greatest sea powers of the world. The “Argosy,” a special type of sailing vessel was “invented” here. Dubrovnik had consulates in more cities than did Venice, and was not only a rich and powerful commercial trader, but a seedbed of art, literature, and architecture.
[After returning to Moscow, I was a bit shocked to find hanging on the walls of one of the companies in which I teach, the reproduction of a detailed illustrated map of Rugosa, the Latin name for Dubrovnik, dated 1233! The city didn’t look too much different from today.]
Napoleon’s juggernaut, however, finally proved too much to defend against or bribe, and in the 18th century, Dubrovnik became a possession of France; subsequently to be merged into the Austro-Hungarian empire, and then into the crazy quilt that became Yugoslavia after WWI.
But when the Communist regimes began unraveling in the late ’80s, the people of Dubrovnik saw their chance and once again declared their independence and freedom.
This time it started a war.
While they won’t talk about it, it seems that Dubrovnik’s historic and fierce commitment to personal liberty simply conflicted with the goals of Serbia and Montenegro, the two remaining powers of what had been Yugoslavia. Bosnia, involved in its own civil war, was also in the process of declaring independence.
Yugoslavia – i.e., Serbia and Montenegro – still had a powerful army and a thriving economy. They were prosperous and satisfied. As Marija and Adrian observed, they liked things the way they were. They especially didn’t want to lose their southern Croatian coast. After all, as Adrian reflected, “…when you said you were from Yugoslavia, everybody respected you….”
[Only in June of this year did Montenegro also stage a national referendum and declare its own independence.]
As a Yugoslavian republic, Croatia with its “crown jewel” Dubrovnik may have been prosperous, but definitely not satisfied. It had too long chafed under the Yugoslavian socialist yoke!
Poster inside the walls shows the type and extent of damage -- direct hits, shrapnel hits, fire, etc. 70% of the homes were damaged. Fifteen years later, It's all been restored.
In Dubrovnik, scars of the war that Tonka didn’t want to talk about were still visible. Of the 824 homes in Old Town Dubrovnik, 70% were damaged; 150 people were killed and over 1000 wounded in the shelling by the Serbian and Montenegrin forces. 20,000 fled as refugees. Ten palaces were completely destroyed by fire.
A wall poster (see photo) inside the city walls shows the sites of the extensive damage. The black triangles show roofs damaged by direct hits; the red squares show fire damage, which – inasmuch as the city is built entirely of stone -- was minimal; triangular outlines show damaged by shrapnel; and round block circles direct impact on pavement. As you look over the city, you are struck by the contrast between the old and new tiles. The overwhelming majority are new. While the government helped fund their replacement, the homeowners footed most of the bill.
The Dubrovniki don’t like talking about the war any more than the Montenegrins. A nervous calm prevails. The anger and hurt on both sides are simply too raw. More healing time is needed. In the meantime, Dubrovnik has almost completely restored itself and the old ambiance once again pervades. Only the new tiles and new mortar remain as scars to remind of the damage and death we heard about on the news a decade and a half ago.
Built in 1438 to “adorn the town” and water its citizens, Big Onofrio’s Fountain, designed by Onofrio della Cava, is still adorning and watering after 564 years. Fresh mountain water was – and still is -- brought by aqueduct, which he also designed, from eight miles away. Incoming visitors were required by the hygiene-conscious Council to wash their hands before entering the city. As you can see, even though it's no longer mandatory, a lot of sweaty tourists still wash their hands and face here. The city’s remarkable sewage system, which is still in operation today, was put into use some 30 years later.
Ivana was in school in Paris at the time, and French news reported almost nothing about the conflict. Ivanka remained in the city. “Weren’t you frightened?” I asked her. “I was very frightened,” she replied. Although her house – the one we stayed in – was not damaged, her neighbor’s house was completely destroyed by a direct hit in war’s roulette game of destruction.
Despite the rain of terror that fell from the skies in the barrage of Serbian shells on Dec. 6, 1991 – much like I imagine must have been falling in Lebanon over the past few weeks – Dubrovnik’s “reign of freedom” survives and thrives.
Dubrovnik lives!
I think it is as much this indomitable spirit of individual freedom, liberty, and survival as it is its incredible architecture and history that make this remarkable medieval walled city so captivating and enthralling.
Unfortunately, the mighty stone walls and fortifications that have so long protected Dubrovnik will be helpless against the catastrophic effects of the global warming that, increasingly, meteorologists and climate scientists like James Lovelock (The Revenge of Gaia) tell us is now inevitable. As the world’s glaciers melt, this unique and historic bastion of freedom seems doomed – like all its sea-level counterparts the world over -- to sink like Atlantis sometime over the next century or two to be pondered and marveled over and wondered about by future generations, if indeed there are any.
Enjoy it while you can.
Marco stars in my only photo of the nude beach. Cameras were not only considered rude, but were prohibited.
The gay scene in Dubrovnik, such as it is, is discreet to say the least. Marco, Ken, and Scott sought it rather aggressively, with minimal success. A bar called Hemingway is considered “gay friendly,” but they found no real gay action, and when they proposed a naked midnight swim in the harbor, none of the other gay guys would join them, though they did have some takers among the women present.
The nude beaches were cruisy, but still rather sterile. The best known is on the island of Lokrum, almost within spitting distance of Old Town. There on a “beach” of layered rocks that form convenient ledges for towels, blankets, and bodies, we stripped, swam, sunbathed, and played cards along with 40 or 50 other guys and a few women.
A few hanging endowments provided pleasant memories, but none were monumental. If anybody had a boner, it was well concealed under the waves. I did discover that red heads also sometimes have flaming red pubes. Photos were not only rude, but forbidden, so I have none to show you except the sign in four languages stating that it’s a nude beach (see photo). As far as action is concerned, Marco stumbled on a pair having at it in the woods nearby, so it does happen.
Walls of the city viewed at sea level from the nearby island of Lokrum, site of the city's best known nude beach, which offers all-over sunburns, rocks, and scenic views.
Lokrum is also interesting for another reason. Legend has it that King Richard the Lionhearted (the notoriously queer English king who is accused of using the “holy” crusades as an excuse to go on long jaunts with the most handsome knights of his realm) was purportedly shipwrecked here in 1192 while on his Third Crusade, and is said to have washed ashore on the island.
A Benedictine monastery was established on Lokrum in 1023, which Napoleon’s army evicted in 1799. Legend has it that as they left the monastery, the monks held their candles upside down and pronounced a curse on anyone who came into ownership of the island.
We all know what happened to Napoleon. Subsequent owners also met tragic ends, including Austrian Archduke Maximillian, who bought the island in 1859 and converted the monastery to a summer house. He was later sent to Mexico to be proclaimed Emperor, but was kidnapped and executed eight years later.
Note the contrast between the original tiles on the roof of the Church of St. Spas and the restored tile on the building behind it. Built in 1520 as a taken of thanks for sparing the city from an earthquake, the church has survived all subsequent disasters, including a massive earthquake in 1667 and the war of the early '90s. The overwhelming majority of Dubrovnik's roofs were damaged and have been re-tiled.
Another owner was Habsburg Archduke Rudolfo, who commmitted suicide, but not before he installed a flock of strutting peacocks on the island, some of which I know are still there, because we saw them. It’s now a national park under ownership of the state. Even today, there are no hotels because it’s considered bad luck to even spend the night on the island.
My last full day there we boated to the nearby (45 minutes) island of Lopud, where we found a lovely beach of real sand, also peopled by a conclave of nudies. I have seen advice on the Internet since then that on this and other scattered islands you should not wander from the beaten path because of landmines left by the Yugoslav Army, although this is never mentioned by locals or guidebooks – bad for tourism, you know.
It was a bit of a hike from the Lopud harbor to the beach, which gave me and Marco a chance to do some serious talking. Prompted by my recent TIA (Chapt. 204, 205, 206), he broached the unbroachable:
“Dane, if you ever become disabled or ill or just get tired of it all, if you want to come to a rest home in the LA area, the VA will pay for it, and I’ll come visit and socialize with you as much as possible.”
Let’s face it, that’s a subject nobody wants to think about, but it has to be faced, and Marco had the balls and compassion to do it. It’s one of the reasons I love him so much. Since we met some 14 years ago in Seattle, we have been closer than blood relatives. I had been interviewing him only 15 minutes as a candidate for the room we had open in my “House of Beatrice” when I was struck by the certainty that “I want this guy as a part of my life – forever.” And he is.
When I decided to come to Russia, everyone told me I was crazy, I’d be killed, it’s a lawless, mafia-controlled country – some of which is true. But Marco said, “follow your dream.”
Just inside the Pile (pronounced PEE-la – Greek for “entry”) Gate stands the Franciscan Monastery, which houses many ancient manuscripts as well as what is said to be the oldest pharmacy in Europe – dating from 1317. This pieta over the south entrance, done by Dubrovnik brothers Leonardo and Petar Petrovich, is all that’s left of the original building.
When I e-mailed Marco about my TIA and the bad medical advice I was getting here, and asked him about the availability and quality of Veterans Administration (VA) and Medicare/Medicaid in the U.S., he immediately sent out a request to his entire social network. As a result, a woman named Leslie M., a former Air Force major, wrote and urged me to go to the LA VA hospital, and offered to do all the advance registration, etc. for me.
“Wait till I’ve discussed it with Marco,” I advised her.
So we discussed it. And over the New Year’s holiday, I will go stay with him in LA while I get a thorough going-over at the VA hospital there, get the medications I need, then come back to Russia to resume my routine here.
I hesitated at first because Hong Kong Harry and I have made plans to go to Thailand at New Year’s. “Why don’t you do both?” Marco suggested. “Go to Thailand over New Year’s because I’ve got a gig in Las Vegas then, and come back in early January when I’ll be here and do what you have to do.”
We also discussed my life here. Zhorik’s perfidy (Chapt. 203) was sort of the last straw and has left me somewhat deflated and empty. Victor’s theft of my camera (Chapt. 213) didn’t help. I’ve given so much of myself to so many, who have given so little in return, and in fact have simply used me. But I didn’t expect it from Zhorik, and it has been a devastating blow.
Like Vatican City, Dubrovnik parades its most adorable young lads through the Stradun, or main street, in sexy guard uniforms. Note the stones of the street, polished by millions of feet since they were installed in the 16th century.
Marco agrees that I deserve better than that and suggested Thailand. Scott had just come back from there and found the boys beautiful, loving, and loyal. Hong Kong Harry has also suggested it.
Among the e-mails awaiting my return to the computer, I found a semi-serious query from my old friend BB in Seattle -- writer, artist, all-round genius and master of wit:
"Nature abhors a vacuum", he quipped; “therefore, if you are living my future, who is living yours?”
“A vexing question,” I replied, pulling out the old chestnut from the ’70s: Have you heard about Mozart? No, what? He composed for 35 years, but has been decomposing ever since.
“Given my recent TIA,” I continued, “I guess Mozart is living in my future.” I suppose he’s living in all of our futures.
But trying to be serious, who, in the shorter term, is experiencing my future?
Since I don’t know anybody in Thailand, I can’t really say. If the Red Queen has any readers there, maybe you can give me some advice and the benefit of your experience. Do I really want to “be there, do that?”
After I took this picture of "Niksha" standing guard at the Ploche Gate, he asked me to send him a copy. So I have his e-mail address! He will certainly be hearing from me :-)
As requested, Marco had brought me some kitchen spices – rosemary, coriander seeds, savory, and turmeric – that I have not been able to find here.
He also brought the book Healthy Aging, by Andrew Weil, M.D., whom I once interviewed for my Drugs & Drug Abuse Education Newsletter back in the late ’60s when he was fresh out of Harvard and had some wise observations about the use and abuse of drugs.
Siince then, he has written Morphine to Chocolate, putting profound logic into the hysteria of the drug scene, and a number of other books that have earned him recognition, according to the NY Times Magazine of “arguably…America’s best-known doctor.”
Marco’s boyfriend Ken mentioned that he has a cousin who has written a book on eating raw foods as a means of controlling weight and enhancing health. So I’m going to experiment with that, but still haven’t figured out how I get my proteins. Raw chicken does not appeal.
As a start, I almost ate my weight in raw figs in Dubrovnik and Tivat – the first time in my life I’ve eaten raw figs. They were amazing! Also ate a lot of watermelon and cantaloupe. I’m also going to try to stay away from dairy products to try to control my phlegm problem. We’ll see how long all these good intentions last.
Back in Moscow Sunday, I went to the Perekrestok supermarket and as luck would have it, they had a lot of fruit and veggies on special, so I stocked up on plums, tangerines, nectarines, bananas, Italian tomatoes, cucumbers, and even an avocado and a little asparagus at $ 5 a pound – not to mention cabbage and beets. Can’t wait to see how this unravels.
How do you end the perfect vacation? By coming back to reality. And reality here, of course, is the ineptitude, bureaucracy, and up-yours of Russia.
Russia’s tentacles first groped me when I got to the airport at Tivat at noon on Saturday. I had had to catch the bus back from Dubrovnik to Tivat on Friday evening because there are only two buses a day and the 10:30 a.m. bus from Dubrovnik wouldn’t get me to Tivat in time for my 1:30 flight.
So it at least gave me a chance to see Adrian again. But again he had little time. Got home from work after 10 p.m., then got a call from a friend and went out. I did shake hands and tell him goodbye as he left for work at 8:00 Saturday morning.
So Tonka took me to the airport about 11:30. But of course the plane to Moscow was late boarding and our TU 154 M, which by the way looked like a rip-off of the old Boeing 727 “Whisperjet,” didn’t start taxiing until 2:30.
The flight was uneventful, but the Russia we all know and love kicked in full blast the minute we touched down. First they kept us in the sweltering airplane for half an hour before a transporter bus finally arrived to take us to the terminal. Not a word of explanation, much less apology.
We boarded the bus and then stood for another half hour before it eventually began moving. Again, not a word. I got in a short line for Passport Control and when I got to the uncommonly handsome young PC officer, I asked, “should I have an immigration card?”
“Yes,” and pointed to a table behind me.
The immigration card was in such tiny Russian print that I couldn’t read part of it even with my glasses. How the hell does a dim-sighted tourist who knows no Russian at all cope with it? While I was looking for somebody who could help me, a girl approached: “Could I borrow your pen?”
“Do you speak English?”
“A little.”
I handed her the pen. She filled out her card and then helped me figure out the rest of mine. I was the last to pass through passport control.
No problem getting my luggage or going through Customs.
Then to catch the “Aeroexpress” train back to Paveletskaya Metro Station and home.
Found the ticket window. “You don’t have to buy a ticket if you arrived by air.”
So I went to the train platform, but couldn’t enter without a ticket. Finally caught the attention of some goof in a train uniform. “You have to have a ticket. You can get one free to the left inside the station.”
Went to the left inside the station. Airline ticket windows.
Back to the Aeroexpress window to wait in line again.
“Where do I get the free ticket?”
“Over there.”
I went “over there” and showed her my airline ticket.
“We can’t give you a free ticket, you’ll have to buy one.”
So back to the Aeroexpress window for the third time, fuming.
Finally boarded the Aeroexpress at 9:30 p.m., two hours after the plane had landed.
I sent some SMSs and made a couple of calls from the train. Tried to call beautiful Peter, with whom I had agreed to meet on Sunday. No answer. Sent him an SMS. No answer to that.
The train stopped at a station. Of course, no announcement.
I got off, only to discover that it was not Paveletskaya but Kurskaya Metro Station. That’s okay. I can catch the metro from here.
It was 11 p.m. and raining when I surfaced from the Belarusskaya Metro Station.
When I unlocked the door to my apartment, Igor had gone to St. Pete as scheduled; Yegor wasn’t there; but Yuri was. “I wasn’t expecting you,” he grinned sheepishly. “I invited a guest to spend the night.”
“I told you I didn’t want you to have guests while I was gone.”
“It’s a girl.”
Oh, that’s okay then.
“She’s sleeping in my bed.”
Well whoop-to-doo. “But I want to check my e-mail.”
“You won’t disturb her. She’s asleep.”
That was my biggest worry.
“Where’s Yegor?”
“He’s not here.”
“You and he both have to move,” I reminded.
“Can I continue to sleep here? I don’t have anyplace else to go.”
That ain’t exactly movin’. “I don’t know. We’ll talk about it.”
And then I pulled down the bed cover. There, where Igor had slept, was a large brown burn hole. The stupid little fuck had been smoking in bed! Only a miracle must have kept him from burning down the whole apartment!
Home sweet home!
No wonder my blood pressure was 150/89.
